Daddy's Little Girl
by Bookworm1027
Summary: A cliche "what if " story. What if: Edward had left Bella, not knowing about an unborn Renesmee? Now little Renesmee is finally meeting the other side of her family. Eventually an Edward Bella story. AU. Renesmee point of view.
1. The House that Built Me

Daddy's Little Girl

The house is huge.

It's log cabin styled, which normally would have seemed outdated and rustic, but the case is not so here. The windows are high and sleek, deep blue curtains behind them obscuring any view to inside. The door looks to be large and mahogany, while simple in it's designed. The house is understated, but obviously a sign of richness.

I knew, of course, from the stories, that the family was wealthy. All of our kind were. Having an eternity to gather money and no food, or obvious human materialistic needs certainly helped with that. Still, seeing a house as large as their couldn't help but be a little intimidating.

As if I wasn't frightened enough.

I sit in my car a ways down the driveway, the music turned up high, the windows vibrating from the sonic booms. I don't need or want them to know I'm here before I go up. I'm not even sure if I actually _am_ going up.

I take a deep breath, letting the natural-flavored air whoosh down my over-sensitive nose and through my unheeding lungs. The air here was sharper than at home, the cold air and snow creating an almost fuller smelling atmosphere.

Alaska.

It had taken some digging to find out they were here, and it wasn't easy. The family had plenty of contacts and knew how to keep their tracks covered. From what I had heard, these people could more than a little intimidating. It was easy to imagine them forcibly persuading others to keep their location a secret.

They may have been intimating, but the thing was; so was I.

I talked my way through everyone I knew, using whatever means necessary to acquire the information I wanted. Eventually they cracked, and I took advantage of the weakness. I had to know where they were. It was all I had ever wanted.

My mother hadn't ever discouraged my coming here, but also wasn't here with me. When I had told her of my intention, she had simply looked at me and nodded.

"I won't come with you" her firm, tired voice told me.

"I wouldn't ask you to.," was my response.

And I didn't. I know how much he-_they-_had hurt her, and the last thing I would ever want to do is repeat that pattern. My mother is everything to me. She had cared for me even when she was half dying; even when I was the one killing her. And even after I finally did.

She had never scorned me when I didn't deserve it, or pushed me when I didn't wish it. She was kind and caring, selfless and understanding. She was beautiful, even beyond the unnatural gifts. I don't look much like her at all, and it bothered me as a younger child.

My mother didn't often tell me stories when I was younger. I was read Shakespeare and Chaucer as a child, not told tales of princesses. We moved around, going from place to place. We lived where we could, stole what we needed, and never hurt a human. I had meant a few other nomads of our kind, each more curious about my identity than the last, and I had noticed the difference between our diets. My mother told me once, when I was just coming into my rapid adolescence, where she learned of our unusual habits. "The kindest man I've ever meant," she told me.

I learned not to ask about my father.

Each and every time I mentioned anyone's father, anywhere, my mother would freeze. Any friendly expression would drop immediately from her face and her eyes would fill with deep sorrow. Some days she like this without any of interference.

I remember the first day I found here alone, when I was barely behaving as a eight year old human would.

_The sunlight was really very, very pretty. Or maybe it was the little block of crystal I held in my hand that created the rainbow. I loved to watch as the rays of color skimmed over my skin, giving it a beautiful luminescent gleam. _

_I like the house we were staying in this time. Mom said that the owners were probably gone-for a few days now, from the look of the newspapers stacked on the doorway. The house was highly decorated-but not with pretty furniture. The flowers and patterns that decorated the furniture, walls and counters were large. The air around us smelled very strange and unpleasant-the smell of old people, mom had said. She had laughed too, we she told me. Mom had the prettiest, softest laugh I had ever heard. It was like a tiny bell, ringing across the world. _

_The house had lots of food here too-human food, just for me. The beds were very bulgy and comfy, like I could melt into the too-soft mattress. The smell you got used to, and despite the ugly flowers and bible verses painting the walls, I felt like I was in an overly enthusiastic hug. _

_It was really, really nice. I liked hugs. My mom gave the best. _

_My head swerved around now, because I noticed my mom suddenly wasn't there. She had told me she was going to take shower this morning…what was taking her so long?_

_I traveled down the long hallway, leading off to the two bedrooms. I stopped outside of mom's, hearing muffled sounds. _

_Was she…crying? _

_I had never seen my mom cry before. She was always smiling at me, always trying to cheer me up when I had a bad day, or was upset. _

_What was wrong? _

_I smoothly opened her door, peaking my child-sized head inside. Mom was curled up in a ball underneath the covers, her head resting on the pillow. Sobs wracked through her body I could see the blankets quivering on top of her. She was crying loudly, and none of the words coming out of her mouth made any sense. _

_I wanted so badly to do something…anything to help her. She didn't deserve to be so sad, not when she cared for everyone else so much. _

_Suddenly, her nonsensically moans turned into words. "Why?" she sobbed desperately, her hands curling into the covers beside her. "Why did you leave me? How could you?"_

_She shifted, turning towards the entryway and I stepped out quickly, my heart hammering. She hadn't seen me and I could still her weeping through the door. "Edward!" she cried heartbrokenly, "I need you! She needs you! Please!"_

It was the first time I had ever heard his name.

I asked her about him a few years afterward. She wasn't mad, or even saddened again, so she told me. Her voice was firm and unwavering, but you could see the desperation behind her eyes.

"He's your father."

For days, she did nothing but tell me their story.

He was one of us, she was not. They met and she was the sweetest thing he had ever smelled.. They fell in love. She told me about how beautiful he was, and how nervous she was. She told me of his kindess, his tenderness that he hid beneath his bravado. She told me of his stubbornness and his intelligence. Of his voice. How he looked like me. His driving habits. Every possible thing she could remember about the man that was my father, she told me.

And then she told me his family. Bubbly Alice, cold Rosalie. Energetic, friendly Emmett. Distant, but kind Jasper. Loving, tender Esme. Compassionate, wonderful Carlisle.

And then she told me how they all left. And how he lied to her.

He had never loved her, never cared for her. She told me of their night together-how they had "proven their love" as it was called when I was younger-and then left the next day.

For years, I hated the man I had never met.

I was convinced I didn't need to know him, or his family. They abandoned my mother, and abandoned me. Why should I grieve the loss of people I had never seen, never needed? Mom tried to change my mind. She shared so many stories of their wonderfulness and begged me to try and understand. My father didn't even know I existed**. **She swore up and down that if he knew, he would never had left his child. She swore he was a better man than that.

But how could he be, when he wasn't here?

When I was fully matured, at about seven years, my mother tried convincing me to go searching for them.

I wouldn't. I shouted at her, cried with her. I told her she was all I would ever need, all I have ever needed.

She didn't know about the picture I kept underneath my pillow every night.

Truthfully, I wanted to know my father. I wondered about him constantly. Was he like my mother said he was? Was he kind? Would he love me like she did? I could tell by his picture-he posed with my mother, looking down at her with eyes filled with adoration-that I looked like him.

By the time I turned nine, I was ready to meet father.

That's how I got here now, sitting in a long, snow covered driveway in a stolen car. I wait for my courage to build up, twisting and turning the wrinkled and faded prom picture between my hands.

The music changed to a softer tune, the notes weaving in and out of head like the singing of a blue bird.

I can do this. I have to do this.

This want-_this pain_-is going to nag at me forever. I had seen what it did to my mother, never confronting her past. I didn't want to end up crying and heartbroken, wondering. I was tried of wondering. I wanted to _know_.

Tucking my wrinkled and torn picture back in my pocket, I take another deep pull of air. He's there, in that house. The man that had left my mother, and abandoned me.

The car door closes with a slam, and I stand beside my car, waiting.

I wait for my courage to rise again. Finally, when I feel I can wait no longer, my feet began to move. I step down the long route to the driveway at no more than an average human pace-I'm stalling for time. What if he answered the door? I've practiced my speech more times then I can remember, and yet I couldn't recall a single word.

Unknowingly, my feet continue forward with out my direction until I'm a mere inch from the large wooden door. I watch with fear as my hand reached up slowly, and knocked just once.

No answer for several seconds.

My heart dropped in my chest.

I hadn't even considered the possibility there weren't here. I had been so _sure_-

The door opens.

A woman stands before me with our kind's usual pale and beautiful features, smiling kindly at me. Her long and flowing hair-cut similarly to my mothers-is a deep shade of caramel. Her face, very smooth and more rounded than usual, has a kind glimmer in her topaz eyes.

I stare at her, memorizing her appearance and quickly determining her identity from years of stories-Esme. My…grandmother.

I can't speak-can't even begin to put words to the emotion I was feeling. How is possible that I had missed my family for so long, even when I had never met them?

"Hello?" her voice is patient and smooth. It sounds…oddly maternal to my ears, like the way my mother sounded when she told me bedtime stories as a child. Her expression is curious, but unsuspecting.

I clear my throat, though the action is unnecessary. I am suddenly grateful that my eyes are covered with dark sun glasses, because my vision is clouding with unwelcoming tears.

"Hello," I step forward, offing my pale, gloved hand. Esme reaches out to greet my grip, unaware of the too-hot skin beneath the black leather. I work hard to keep my voice at a steady level. "My name is Renesmee."

She smiles, warm and welcoming. She seems to sense my nervousness, because she leaves a more than necessary amount of space between our immortal bodies.

"You're very welcome, Renesmee." At once, I realize that these are the same words she first spoke to my mother, when my father first brought to her meet his…_my _family. "My name is Esme Cullen. What can I help you with?"

"I…" my throat seems to go dry, though it's a physical impossibility. Another deep breath. "I wonder E-Mrs. Cullen, if we could continue this conversation inside?"

Her expression drops just a bit, going from easy friendliness to cautious concern. Nevertheless, she moves aside, opening the door motioning for me to enter.

The house looks every bit a fashionable on the inside as does the exterior. The walls are a bright, yet muted cream color, all of the furniture a complimenting pale blues. The curtains switch between a sunflower yellow and a dark blue. The ceiling of the den is large and rounded, created from halfway opaque glass. There are no doors, but obvious entryways instead. Peaking through, I can see a silver and sleek kitchen through the gap in the wall.

Esme leads me to the middle of the den, sitting on the chair and motioning for me to have a set across from her. As I walk I purposely avoid stepping out into the small patches of light from above. Whether I want to or not, my abnormal nature needs be kept quiet until I reveal my identity.

"How can I help you?" she repeats, fidgeting needlessly.

I answer as best as I can. "I…I'm here to meet an old family friend. A friend of a friend." I'm a babbling, nervous mess. "I'm sorry to disrupt you, ma'am, but you kept your tracks well covered and I didn't…I couldn't wait."

The concern deepens in her kind golden eyes, and after a short silence she says., "You look familiar. Have we met previously?"

We both know the answer to that-no. We've never met, but I know she's seen pieces of me, in both my parents.

"No," I answer out loud.

"Hmmm," she hums thoughtfully. "And who did you say you were to see, dear?"

Dear. I like the endearing way she says it, as though it's only natural to do so. Like I deserve the name. As much as my mother loves me, she's never been one for pet names. I'm always just Renesmee to her.

"Edward," I breath his name, swallowing back more tears. "Edward Cullen."

Her eye brows shoot up violently, and it's the first time she looks anything but friendly. Nervousness, anxiousness, and even suspicion are the only things feelings I can detect from her now.

"How do you know Edward?" she demands.

"I know…an old friend of his."

Suspension takes over completely. "Who might this old friend be?"

I swallow. "I'd rather…leave her out of this, if you don't mind."

In a flash, Esme is standing up, seeming to tower above me. "If _you_ don't mind, I would very much like to know who sent you here. My son…" her expression thickens and she closes her eyes. She looks pained and upset by something. I desperately want to comfort her-make her feel better-but I don't understand why she is upset.

Fear washes through me.

Is my father…is he…_dead? _Have I missed my chances to ever meet him? Did he leave this world not knowing me, and hating my mother? _Oh god_…my breathing is labored.

Esme's eyes open, and they're full of uncontained fury.

"Edward has had a very difficult time. And I don't want some…_girl_," she sneers the word menacingly, "bothering him. Why are you here? Did he send you-Aro? Edward said no last time, and I can guarantee you his answer is the same. Leave. _Now._"

She turns away from me, walking towards the door and wrenching it open violently. "Thank you for coming by, Miss Renesmee." She tells me coldly, refusing to make eye contact.

I choked silently. What could I say to make her believe me? Were there any words that would cause her to believe me?

Finally, I know what to do.

I stand, as smoothly as ever, and walk over slowly. When I am at last standing face-to-face with my infuriated grandmother I remove my glove, lifting my fingers to her cold cheek.

"What-!" she begins to yelp, before the pictures flood her mind. I close my eyes in concentration, showing her my life. My everything.

_The sound of my mother's voice through the womb, dull and muted…_

_The first time I saw her with my own eyes. A very pretty dark haired woman, skin too tight across her face and blood smeared over her expression. Blood over her chest. Blood everywhere. Her_ _features contorted in murderous pain. The smell overtaking me…I leaned forward, sinking my venomous teeth into her soft flesh…hearing her scream of pain…_

_Mom's new face as it awakens for the first time. Scarlet eyes. I've watched over her for three days, curling into her withering body as I slept. The smile that lights across her stunning face. Her voice, so new…so different…"Beautiful Renesmee…so much like him…"_

_The picture of each home I ever had…_

_My mother's trilling laugh as she runs through the woods, mahogany trailing behind her…_

_The feel of grass against my feet and the glow of my skin….the same brown I had first seen in life, but now in my eyes as I gazed into the mirror…_

_The_ _taste of animal blood, sweet and yet strangely unsatisfying as it runs down my throat…_

_Hearing my mothers cries…_

_The stories of the Cullens…_

_Her voice whispering my father's name, light and breathy, as though he's sitting right next to her…_

"_I love you, my Renesmee…he would love you too…they all would…"_

Esme back away from my hand. I open my eyes, taking note that her expression has shifted completely. Instead of rage, he eyes hold awe and amazement. Her hands are grasping at her unbeating heart, her mouth gaping open at me.

"I'm not lying," I head her off. To show as proof, I slowly slide my sunglasses of my face, showing her my mother's eyes.

"Oh," she gasps, almost sobbing now. Her hand shakily pushes the door close and she hesitantly, nervously, reaches out and pulls my body against hers. Her tender arms wrap tightly around me as her face burrows in my shoulder, tearless sobs wracking through her body. I cry too, letting everything pour out of me. All the fear, all the frustration. It lands on her with my tears as she storks my hair and hugs me tight.

"I know you're not," she tells me at last, finally pulling back. She keeps her hands on my shoulders, her eyes scanning over me. "I can see it," she grins brightly-so euphorically- "I can see her eyes, here," she traces below both of my eyes with her index finger, then moves her hand upwards, tousling my hair. "But he's there too. In your hair…you face…" Another too-bright grin. "You're so beautiful."

I blush lowly, but say nothing.

"You've come to see him, haven't you? Your…your _father_."

I nod. "`Is he…does he live here?" _Is he alive?_

Her heads bobs up and down once, signaling the positive.

I clear my throat once more, almost crying with relief. I'd found him. Finally, after so long, I ha found my father. "When can I…would it be alright if I…I don't have anywhere…"

I'm a bubbling mess, and nothing I'm saying makes any sense. Esme seems to understand what I mean though, and takes over, grabbing my hand. "You can stay as long as you like. I insist. You're always welcome here, my…my granddaughter." She grins on the last word and I can practically feel the happiness seep out of her body, pouring over me and making my own face lift in return. She's more than happiest. She's completely and undeniably euphoric.

She leads me back towards the couch, our hands still clasped together tightly. As we sit down, face to face this time, she urges me, with a careful, but desperate edge. "How is your…your mother? I still can hardly believe she's alive and…," she grins sheepishly, "not _well,_ I suppose, but alive. And then to know about you! You can't _imagine_ the whirlwind your going to cause here."

I begin to stand uncertainly, nervous that presence will be too much trouble. "I can leave, if-"

"No!" she interrupts hastily, pulling me back downwards. "Please, I didn't mean that. It's _wonderful_ that you're here. Fantastic."

I smile, though the action isn't planned. "Alright," I sit down slowly, "If you're sure."

More grinning as her arms gently lace through mine. "So, tell me, how is Bella doing? You can't know how we've _all_ missed her."

So I tell her about my mother.

I tell her for hours and hours, as though it's the first time I've done so. I move my hands as we laugh together, and each story I tell her grows more and more animated. I've never felt this connected to someone so easily before, beside my mother. For everyone else, I've needed to study them and observe them-to know inexplicitly that they can be trusted. But with Esme, I just _…know_ she would never hurt me if she didn't need to. That she _cared_.

After about three hours of speaking, the sound of a smooth car's engine can be heard from outside. Esme springs at once to her feet, running hurriedly to the door. "Carlisle!" she practically shouted, turning to mirror in the entryway and straightening her hair nervously. She looks at my though the reflection with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, dear, but I felt that you…your presence couldn't properly be explained over a phone call. I hope your alright with meeting my husband?" I nod eagerly at once.

Apparently pleased with her appearance, she turns back towards me and plants a soft kiss to my forehead. "He'll be so pleased to see you." she whispers.

Not a half second later the front door opens.

A man with striking, sharp features walks breezily into the room. His hair is light blonde and his body is lean and tall. His pale skin seems almost natural, as if he had been that way all his life. A white doctors' coat, half open, covers up a pair of perfectly tailored brown trousers and a light blue shirt.

He's smiling as he enters, and the ease in his walk equals the calmness in his small grin. Quickly, I turn around, reaching down to replace my sunglasses, but stop as I feel Esme touch my shoulder gently.

"Darling," she greets her husband lovingly, walking over to embrace him sweetly.

"Hello, sweetheart," he greets back, his gaze flickering curiously over to my as I duck my head down lowly. Apparently with his adept medical training, he hears my heart beat immediately, because his eyes flash in wonder. Esme, not noticing, brings him forward to introduce us.

"Carlisle," She begins, "This is Renesmee. I…she's…well," she chuckles nervously, "I'm not sure really how to explain,"

Carlisle is looking at my uncovered eyes, his gaze curious and puzzled, his eyes then travel down to my upper chest, locked on my too-fast heart. He tries to figure me out-trying to understand. Quickly, as not to cower out of the situation, I step forward without preamble and place my hand to his cheek.

His reaction is the usual: shock at first, and then morphing into awed confusion. I show him the same tale I told Esme, and when I finish I stepped back, awaiting his approval.

He blinks once, twice, and then begins to grin and abruptly pulls me towards him, hugging me tightly.

"My God," he breathes, his eyes tracing over my figure. "You…I can't even believe…" He grins, bright and sincere. "You must be so different," he muses out loud, seeming fascinated. "You have your mother's eyes, and _Edward's _hair. You skin is a little above normal in temperature…" his words trail off, but the fascinated glow never leaves his clever topaz eyes.

"It's so…_lovely_ to meet you," Carlisle's voice is so sincere it almost brings another round of tears to eyes. He steps close to me and grabs my hand, leaning forward to place a fatherly kiss to my forehead.

He leads me back over to the couch, one arm wrapped gently around my arm as the other entangled with Esme's.

"I hope you don't mind," Carlisle begins once we are all comfortable, " but I was hoping you could tell me a little more about your nature. I mean no insult, of course. I'm a curious creature." His smile is warm and charming, and he is laid back so easily against the chair I would think he were human, if I didn't know otherwise.

I laughed lightly, recalling the musical, soft voice from my past. "My mother always told my you were intelligent." I inform him, "She spoke very highly of you-of both of you."

Carlisle exchanges a quick glance with Esme. He then leans forward towards me, his expression cautious. "Is she well, your mother?"

"My mother is...in health," I supply. I'm unable to lie to him-to tell him that she's wonderful, because she's not. She still cries through the night, when she thinks I can't hear her. She calls and begs for my father, his name echoing across the rooms in desperate groans…"She's misses you all so much," I add in secondly.

Esme begins to open her mouth, but stops as her husband pats her hand in gentle warning.

"Your heart beats?" Carlisle said after a moment of silence, not-so-subtly changing the subject.

"Faster than most humans, but yes."

"And do you…are you aging?"

"Faster than normal, again, but yes." I gesture down my body, "I've looked this way for almost two years now, but am only nine in actual years."

His eyes sparkle with barely restrained interest. "Really? And how did that work? Was there an obvious pattern?"

I shake my head and begin to answer, but am stopped when a loud thundering comes from the entrance hall.

Both Carlisle and Esme exchange a quick, but worried glance. The lovely, cameral haired woman rises and bustles nervously towards the front door. She has her hands held outwards as if to stop an oncoming assault. Both Carlisle and I stand-him in worry, me in nervousness.

"Carlisle!" comes the loud, high pitched shout from the front door. "Esme!" a tiny-very tiny-woman comes bolting into the front room. She had short and spiked black hair, and her facial features-besides being unmistakably beautiful-and faerie-like and pointed. She has very large round eyes with seem to take up most of her expression. They are wide with worry, and they only close when she collides with Esme's body.

"Thank God!" She says, and she begins speaking in a rapid, breathless voice. "I couldn't see! Something changed-something important-but there were blank spots and I couldn't tell…" her voice trails up as her golden eyes survey the room, finally resting on me. Her brows furrow slight as she stares at me, obviously confused.

Several people follow after her. The first to enter is a blonde haired male, his body very tall and toned. He, unlike the first girl, spots me at once and crouches directly in front of the pixie, his stance defensive. His impenetrable skin is covered in silvery, half-moon scars and the sight awakens something inside me. I instinctually want to shrink away and proper myself-he's dangerous.

I search through my flawless memory to find their names.

Alice. Alice and Jasper.

The next two to enter the room I can also place right away. Rosalie is the stunning, tall golden-haired woman. She has perfectly proportioned features and a well-shaped figure that is accentuated by the perfectly fitted expensive clothes around her.

Suddenly embarrassed by my modest attire, I reach up to smooth down my auburn curls.

The man smiling at me from beside his mate is very large, his frame and muscles three times the size of mine. His eyes are-with the exception of Carlisle and Esme-the kindest in the room. He looks at me without the suspicion of his brother or wife, and empty of the dizzying fascination of his sister. He stares at me with only open eyes curiosity and affection. This, my mother always said, was the overgrown child and her favorite once-brother, Emmett.

As I am observing each of the siblings, a final body enters the room. He is silent, and subtle as he walks towards us. His eyes never leave the ground and his face-though absurdly beautiful, and more than a little similar to my own-is expressionless. His lips are narrow and sullen, the line of his cheeks sinking deep within to his face. There are deep circles beneath his eyes, as though he is a human who hasn't slept in several days.

He doesn't look at me as he enters the room, and only person, besides myself, acknowledge his presence. It's as though they are so used to his ghost-like existence none of them react anymore. Only Esme crosses her spot in the room to go to him, laying her hand gently on his arm. He looks up at her once, give a grimace that might have been trying to pass for a smile, and dropped his head back to the ground. His eyes close in concentration and his brow furrows, as though he is in pain.

I can't look away from him. He's there-_right there._ The man I had wondered about and searched for my entire life was now standing mere feet in front of me.

I want to say something, say _anything_, but words seem to evade me.

Finally, he speaks, breaking the heavy silence in the room.

"Please." he says, not looking up. His voice is rough velvet-like it had once been sooth, but now was broken from lack of use, or heavy emotion. "Could you just…stop picturing her. Saying her name. Please."

Breath blows out harshly through my lungs and suddenly, my legs are propelling me forward.

"Are…are you Edward…Edward Cullen?" I ask him when I am closer, though I already know the answer. I can see the shape of his nose-_my nose-tilt as his eye meet mine. Suddenly is expression shifts into unparallel wonder and he stares directly at my eyes, studying them. He shifts his tall body forward, his hand reaching out towards me. His legs seem to shake, though he hasn't taking a single step yet. _

_I push forward, and take one last determined move in his direction. I hold my up. _

"_My name is Renesmee Swan," I begin, the surname sounding somehow awkward on my lips, "and I'm your daughter." _


	2. The Thickness of Water

Chapter Two

The Thickness of Water

I'm sitting on a pale blue bedspread, the cloth a pure and soft cotton. I inhale deeply, recognizing the scent of the fabric as it lingers in my sensitive nose. I detect other smells in the room as well-the pine, from the wardrobe that sits across from me. Silk from the pile of clothes Esme had left sitting on the bed next to me. The particles of dust which swam in the air around me.

With such a sensitive nose, it was certain I would have ears to match.

I could hear them two floors below me.

After introducing myself to everyone-except, of course, for Carlisle and Esme-the room had settled into an awkward silence. Finally, nervous at the quiet around me, I had began to speak.

I retold me story, with words instead of images this time. When I had finish, the quiet was no more.

Alice was questioning me at a rapid pace, her eyes growing impossibly wider as she wondered and pestered to her heart's content. In between Alice's surprisingly intense interrogation, Emmett was laughing, Jasper speaking in low-obviously suspicious- tones with Carlisle and Esme and then-Rosalie.

_Aw, yes. Rosalie. _

Rosalie yelled.

She shouted at Alice. "How could you not have _seen _this…?"

She screamed Carlisle. "You just let us _leave her_! Leave a _baby_, all because we were indulging his self deprecating, self sacrificing ass!"

She fumed at Jasper, "Don't even think about trying to calm me down!"

And she raged at Edward. Especially at Edward.

I hadn't taken my eyes off of him-off my _father_-since he had set foot in the room. I studied everything I could about him, from the set of his brow to the color of his dark eyes.

He was everything my mother had described him as. I wanted to speak with him alone. To tell him how _angry_ I was. To cry on his shoulder. I wanted his strong arms to hold me, and his voice to sooth me.

For the millionth time in my short life, I longed for my father's touch.

Instead-though I could not tear my gaze from him-he had barely glanced at me since my introduction.

My heart broke yet again.

_Look at me_!

I wanted to beg for it, scream for it, cry for it.

But I just stood there looking at him as he stood across from me, staring straight towards the ground, not even bothering to acknowledge his furious sister as she shrilled towards him. I looked into his eyes and saw an emotion there I couldn't name-it looked more saddened than I had ever seen, and yet sparkled with something entirely opposite.

After a few minutes of pure chaos and noise erupting from the room, Esme stood and walked towards me.

"Quiet." she had said in a low, but firm voice.

The room was surrounded in silence immediately.

"My dear Renesmee," she had addressed me, "I understand you need to sleep-and you must be exhausted from the long journey. Let me show you to your room."

"We aren't going to talk-?"

"My children and I need to have a short meeting first," she told me, her eyes narrowing even as he tone did not. "But I _promise_ you can say and ask all you want in the morning, after some much needed rest."

I has hesitated, but eventually let her led me upstairs to the guest room. She had pointed out the adjoining bathroom and left some pajamas on the bed. With a last smile, and a "sleep well, sweet," she was gone.

And now I sat.

They are back to yelling at each other again, I know, but they had muffled their voices. I could only make out tones and vague guesses at their actual words.

I try my best to drown out the grumbled sound of all their voice. As I change into the smooth silk pajamas given to me, I suddenly realize that I'm completely exhausted. I feel like I been running for miles.

I lie down on the soft, unnecessarily large bed, using my family's shouts as a lullaby as I drift of to sleep.

When I wake, I immediately notice that its late in the morning by the shade of bright, sunflower yellow that pours in from the window to my left. I stretch and yawn, searching for the strength to go downstairs and face them again. To face my father again.

I walk over to the overstuffed sofa sitting the corner of the guest room and begin to reach for the clothes I had placed last night. But when I touch the too-neatly folded attire I immediately realize it is not my own. The fabrics are too bright, colorful and soft to be my usual jeans and t-shirt apparel.

I hold the fabric up and am surprised to find that my outfit yesterday has been replaced with a very pretty light pink sundress. A small note has been carefully pinned to the front of the dress.

_Renesmee,_ it reads,

_I hope you don't mind me taking your old things down to the wash. Hopefully this will fit you well enough. The bathroom is yours now, and its already been stocked with anything you might need. Come down for breakfast whenever your ready. _

_Alice_

_P.S. There are some shoes in the dresser, bottom shelf. _

I open the wardrobe to see that, yes, there was a small shoes box in the last shelf. Nestled inside were a pair of delicate white sandals.

I move into the bathroom and shower, using the ridiculous amount of supplies Alice has given me, including tampons, razors, soap, two kinds of shampoo, conditioner, many towels and four different flavors of tooth paste and floss.

When I am done, I feel cleaner than I have in years.

I also feel strange, in an outfit like this. I've only worn dresses like this when I was a young girl, and its odd to not have the rough denim shielding my legs and almost _protecting_ me. This dress is flimsy and open. I've never felt more vulnerable.

I've also never felt so pretty.

I take a few moments just to look in the mirror like I never have before, twirling and watching as I become transformed into an almost…feminine creature. Its an odd feeling, but certainly not an unpleasant one.

With my new empowering dress I finally make my way downstairs, forcing my breaths to come in and out at a steady, normal pace.

They are all gathered around the living room as I entered. Their positions are relaxed and casual, but I can detect the underlying tension behind it. They are shifting too little and making far to much significant eye contact to even try to maintain an illusion of normality.

"Good morning." I say, purposely forcing my voice to be strong and pleasant.

I see my father's copper hair close to me, facing the opposite direction as he perches on the pale couch.

"Good morning," they chorus back, all but two voices speaking.

"Does it fit well?" Alice asks, standing up and almost dancing to my side. She has a smile lighting her fairy face and it makes her look deceptively frail and child-like.

"Perfectly. Thank you very much."

Suddenly, without so much of a preamble, she reaches up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms gingerly around me and squeeze.

Hugs, I realize, are not just an "Esme thing".

"Pretty girls are supposed to wear pretty dresses." Is all she says in response.

"Renesmee." Carlisle greets me, moving towards us as well. I smile at him- _at my grandfather_-and say nothing else.

I have no idea how this morning will end.

"I hope you slept well?" he inquires.

"Like the dead," I joke and he gives a gentle chuckle.

"I'm glad to hear it.," he tells me stepping in a little closer. "Our home is your home."

I flush at the reminder that we all, in this room, are connected by blood. I take a deep breath and then decide, for all of our sakes, to direct attention to the large elephant that loomed with us.

"I was wondering if I could speak to you all," I pause. I swallow. "Together."

Carlisle nods and motions for everyone to follow him as he walks around the corner. I stay back just long enough to see _him_ stand, and to memorize his face again, even as he refuses to so much as glance at me.

With one last steadying breath, I walk into a spacious dinning room- a large table made of dark wood and a glossing exterior. Twelve matching chairs surround it. Carlisle takes the chair at the very end of the room, sitting at the head of the table. Its is clear by how no one questions his position and by the way he unconsciously holds himself that he is coven's leader. But he also doesn't show the audacity of some leaders, the arrogance. He doesn't hold himself up as the leader because he thinks he _should_ be, but rather because he _has_ to be.

Esme sits immediately on his right, while Jasper and Alice sit next to her. Rosalie and Emmett separate themselves from their leader by a seat to his left.

Edward sits next to Jasper, and yet he keeps his head down at all times.

I stand at the other end of the table., away from them, as it has always been.

They each, but my father, turn to look at me.

I breath again. They are an intimidating audience; all beautiful, all foreign to me.

"I'm sorry," I begin. "I know my showing up like this was more than a little…surprising to you all, and I'm sorry about that.

"I also need you to know that my reasons for coming here are completely genuine. I'm not looking for your money, or protection or…anything." I give them a look I hope looks strong and determined. "I just wanted to…meet you all."

I sit down then, knowing I want to say more -so _much_ more-to them, but not knowing how to say them, or even if I have he strength to form the words.

No one says anything, as though they can understand I have yet to unleash all of my words. I am grateful for the silence.

Finally, I begin to speak again. To defend the woman who has always defended me.

"Please don't be angry with my mother." I start. Everyone jerks in surprise. Even Edward-_my father-_looks up at that, his golden eyes widening.

"She wasn't the one who sent me here-"

"She's just the one that kept you away all those years, isn't that right?"

Rosalie is the one to speak, her icy voice piercing my ears and easily drowning out my soft pleas. "She's the reason we haven't met you before? Let me guess," her voice turns even colder, her eyes narrowing as she tries to stand. Emmett grips her arms strongly-barely managing to keep her seated. "Bella filled your head with horror stories about us, about her _broken heart_. She told you to stay away from us, hmm? That we wouldn't want you? That we were cruel and-!"

"No!" I'm standing now too, my entire mind with shock at her assumptions. My mother had sometimes mention that Rosalie and she were not close but never had she spoke of this apparent…._hatred_ between them.

"She never said anything…anything like that!"

"Then why haven't you been here before?" Rosalie demanded. "Why _now_ do you want to meet us?"

My mouth opens, but silence pours out.

How do I say it? How do I tell them that I hated them? That somewhere deep inside…I still do?

I avoid her questions. "My mother has been trying to convince me to come here for years, it was just that I…" couldn't stand the thought being rejected, hated watching your actions tear her apart for the inside, didn't want to meet the man that had abandoned me from birth. "I was nervous."

Rosalie seethes inwardly, but finally sits down.

"Why didn't she come with you?"

It is a soft voice, and I turn to see Alice looking at me with wonder in her large, child-like eyes.

"What?"

"Your…Bella." She seems to breath out the word. "If she doesn't…_detest _us then why didn't she come with you. We've all…we would have liked to see her again."

My mother couldn't face you, couldn't face him. "She already had…plans." I lie. "With family friends down in South America."

"Are you in contact?" Carlisle asks me.

"We know how to get in touch," Is all I respond. Some things are best kept private.

"Won't you please…invite her?' he asks, as Esme squeezes his arm gently, in what I guess is a sign of support. "Let her know we would very much like to see her?"

I nod. "Of course."

Again, awkward silence fills the room.

"You can stay here as long as you like," Esme says after a long moment. She leans in close, and her eyes fill only with compassion. "I'm-_we're_-so glad to meet you as well. Please know that our home is your home."

"Thank you," I murmur shyly. "But I wouldn't want to impose on you gracefulness for too long."

"Its for you," Alice says suddenly, turning to Carlisle. Everyone, excepting Edward who has resumed his long stare at his feet, look at her in confusion. Carlisle opens he mouth just as the shrill ring fills the home. With an affection chuckle and pat to his daughters hand, he stands and leaves to answer it.

He returns a moment later, smiling at his family in apology.

"The hospital." He says in way of explanation. "They need me on site." He gives his wife a small kiss in parting and then comes to me. He touches my arm with a sense of gentleness that almost crimples me. Somehow, though this man is not my father, he is as close as I have ever known. My actual father has barely even looked at me. "Make yourself comfortable." he tells me and walks out. I hear the front door shut with a resounding thump.

"So," Emmett says immediately upon his father's departure. "How 'bout a tour, Missy? I'd be happy to do the honors."

"I'd-" I begin to accept, pleased to find that another member of my mysterious family seemed to warm up to me, at least in slightest, but Esme interrupted.

"Breakfast!" she cries, her face alight with something close to enjoyment. "I made breakfast. I wasn't sure…" her voice trails off uncomfortably as she stands up. Esme places a gentle, guiding hand on my elbow and leads me forward, to the large and beautiful kitchen I had seen yesterday. On the counter sat many larges plates, each filled to the brick with eggs and pancakes, bacon, fresh fruit. I blinked.

"Wow." I said slowly, amazed at all of the work my…my grandmother had put into this. "This is…" mind-blowing. Wonderful. I felt odd, irrational tears begin to prickle in my vision. "Too much. Really I don't…want anyone to go to too much trouble for me."

"Esme would go to trouble for the Volturi guard if they asked nicely enough," Emmett chuckled, his booming voice more than filling the room as it seemed to echo around us. He place his paw of a hand on my shoulder in a gesture that he most likely thought was gentle, and told me, "Come on, Squirt. You can eat in a few minutes-I wanna get to know you."

With that, he began practically towing me away by the arm. I gave a last smile to Esme in apology and captured a final glance at my still statue-like father before allowing myself to be dragged outward.

Emmett gave a much different tour, I suspected, than Esme would have. His actual elaboration or speaking of the grand rooms we entered was little to non existent. Instead, he spent all of the time laughing and questioning me about myself.

I had a feeling that would quickly become a pattern here.

But often, his questions were random and….almost childish.

"Do you drink blood, or just eat human food?"

I could survive on both, but often preferred the former.

"I saw the car you brought here-pretty sweet ride. Is it yours?"

At this I blushed lightly.

It was a…_friend's. _

He laughed at that. "A little thief, aren't you. Ah, its alright. Kind of unavoidable sometimes, huh?"

As Emmett was saying this he pushed open a set of glass double doors, and they stepped through together.

The room was large, and dome shaped, appearing as though it was meant for royalty. It was full of shelves upon shelves, all layered with rows and rows of books. I suddenly had a strange flashback of Disney's _Beauty and the Beast._

"Oh my…" I gasped out, turning and twirling to see all points of the glorious room. "It gorgeous."

Almost mystified, I walked slowly to one of the larger bookshelves, reaching out to pull a book down. I held it gently, cautiously in my hands. Even more delicately, I leaned to place my nose in the crease of the book. I inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet smell of fresh ink. A soft sigh escaped me.

"Emily Bronte. One of her favorites."

I gasped, more than shocked as a low voice that was clearing _not_ Emmett's resounded from behind me. The antique book slipped from between my small finger as I turned in my surprise. I moved down to grab it, feeling almost desperate to protect the old script, but I was too late.

I saw a pale, long fingered hand suddenly appeared beneath my line of sight, snatching the leather bound works a split second before it hit the carpeted ground.

I lifted my head up slowly then, purposely maintaining my steady breathing. I knew it was him. Even without looking, I _knew_ it.

And then we both straightened out our stance and made eye contact. It was the second time now, but I still couldn't stop the flow of tears that suddenly welled in my eyes. His previously expressionless face grew solemn and he turned his gaze away from mine.

He began to walk then, still in silence.

I closed my eyes as he walked behind me, back towards the self, and took several deep, though hardly calming, breaths.

Edward Cullen and I were alone in a room.

My father and I were alone.

_My father._

_Alone._

I had planned this meeting out so many times in my head, practically fantasying about it. I would be crying in his arms as he soothed me. But in my mind, he was not the distant, almost robotic man I saw now. The man I had always envisioned was practically overcome with emotions. He too sobbed as he held me, letting me bury my tear-stained into his chest. He would tell me how much he loved me, how much I looked like him, how special I was to him. And then finally, after all the yelling and crying and shouting had finally finished he would smile at me. That same glorious crooked grin that my mother had so often spoke of.

And everything would be-if not perfect-better. Because I would have my father.

But instead our meeting was in almost completely silence, with each of us facing away from the other at opposite ends of the room. It was not exactly what I had imagined.

The very thought that this was all a wasted effort-that even after forcing myself to at last gain the courage to meet him-he wouldn't want me almost had me falling to my knees.

But I wouldn't. He wouldn't know he had that kind of power over me.

He _couldn't._

After all, look at what had happened to my mother when she trusted him with her heart. I was determined to _never_ be my mother.

I would never that anyone hurt me like that. Break me like that.

So I gathered all the strength I possessed at the time, allowing myself to ask one word in question.

"Emmett?"

"Stepped Out."

His voice was cold and implacable.

"Oh."

We stood in silence again, neither or us turning to face the other.

"Bronte?"

Out of the corner of my unmoving eye, I saw his forming ambling slowly around the room, looking at the shelves absent-mindedly. He seemed very casual-too casual.

"What?"

"Emily Bronte. Are you a fan?"

He still did not look at me, though I was acutely aware of each movement he made.

"Yes." I answer honestly, not bothering to think my answer through. "I love all of the Bronte women-although _Jane Eyre _is a personal favorite. "

"Hmm."

More quiet enveloped us.

I swallow, anchoring myself.

"Do you read?"

He glanced back at me slightly, a small ghost of a smirk crossing his face. The first sign of an emotion other than pain, sadness, or emptiness. Just the sight gave me a fierce stab of hope.

"I can."

He turned again.

More than a little disappointed by his vague answer, I too turned. The sight of a sleek and dark baby grand piano in the left corner of the room caught my attention.

A memory of my mother's voice echoed in my mind. I had been equivalent to about seven years old-being tucked in for my nightly slumber.

"_He was a marvelous player." her voice was years away, her eyes cloudy as she lost herself in the distance of lost but never forgotten years. "I remember sometimes I would just lie while he played, closing my eyes and letting the sounds wash over me. His music could take anywhere I wanted to go-and I've never seemed him more at peace then when he played my lullaby."_

_My own voice had barely been a squeak at the time. "He _wrote_ you a song?"_

_He golden orbs twinkled brighter than any star I had ever seen. _

"_The most beautiful one in history."_

I let my hands trace over the glossy surface.

I had wondered-hoped, maybe, that he might someday play me my mother's lullaby.

"Do you play?"

He was speaking to me again. I turned to look at him, returning his earlier half smirk over my shoulder. "No. I've always wanted to learn but…"

She couldn't play.

And my learning would just be another reminder she didn't need.

"Do you?" I questioned, already knowing the answer.

He didn't smile this time as he slowly began walking towards the library door.

"I can."

He pulled the door open, and just as he stepped through, I heard his strong voice speak a last time.

"Stay. Please."

And then he was gone.

My father wasn't yet what I'd imagined?

I couldn't help but fear: _would he ever be? _


End file.
